


Eggs and Coffee

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blacksmith Bucky, M/M, Romani Bucky, Sheriff Steve, Shovel eggs, The as yet unwritten Deadwood au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: Bucky heads into the backroom and gives the cot a gentle kick.“Up,” he growls before heading back to the forge.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Limoncello_Bella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limoncello_Bella/gifts).



> At some point, when I'm not dying at the hands of a Great British Bake Off au, or generally being savaged by PlotBirds, I will sit my sorry arse down and write the epic Deadwood au.
> 
> *Update*  
> You can find the epic Deadwood au here [Cinder and Smoke](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9201059/chapters/20875832)

Bucky wakes early, blinking in the pre dawn light slanting through the shutters. Steve mumbles in his sleep, shifting against Bucky before settling again with a sigh.  
Bucky eases himself upright, slow and careful so as not to jostle the sleeper pressed up against him on the narrow cot. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Steve Rogers at rest, all pale skin limned with honey. His hair, usually slicked back and hidden under a wide brimmed hat, is a mess of gold spread over the pillow. Bucky traces his fingers along Steve’s shoulders, touching the bite marks carefully placed below the collar. Barely brushes over his ribs and the finger shaped bruises at his hips before pulling the woolen blanket up to his broad shoulders.  
Asleep, he lacks the wrinkle of tension at his brow. His jawline, furred with dark gold, is not clenched with frustration. He is beautiful in sleep. As beautiful as when he is awake, dressed in his finery and silver star and looking for a fight.  
Bucky slips quietly out from the covers, padding barefoot across the floorboards. He catches the jar of liniment with his foot, and bends down to retrieve it from where it had been discarded the night before. He smiles to himself as he screws the lid on and sets it on the bookshelf.  
He pulls on his worn canvas pants, buttoning them up and snatching his work shirt off the floor. He pulls it over his head, wrestling with the sleeves in the gloom, and goes in search of his boots. He finds one in the corner, the other under the cot, and pulls them on, tying up the laces before heading out to the workroom.

The forge is banked, dark and dusted with white ash. Bucky stirs the coals and sets the bellows to works until they glow cherry red, before rummaging around in his stores until he finds the handful of eggs Mr Lang had paid for his horses new shoe with. A little more searching brings up twist of lard and a heel of bread that still seems edible. Bucky sets the items on the table, picks up the coffee pot and heads out to the yard.  
He goes to the outhouse for a piss and washes his face and hands, empties the dregs from the coffee pot before filling it from the well and heading back inside.  
He opens a tin of coffee and tips some into the pot, setting the blackened base on the coals. He gets a shovel and sets it in the embers, twisting the handle until it’s set firmly in place.  
Bucky heads into the backroom and gives the cot a gentle kick.  
“Up,” he growls before heading back to the forge.  
He flicks the lump of fat onto the shovel, tilting the handle to coat the pan as it hisses and spits. He cracks the eggs, one at a time, into the hot fat, giving the shovel an occasional sharp tug to keep them from sticking. He tears the bread in two and presses the pieces onto the shovel to soak up the hot fat, then grabs two enamel mugs and gives them rinse.  
He fills the mugs with coffee, flips the fried bread onto a tin plate and scoop a couple of eggs onto each piece before setting the shovel aside.  
He grabs the mugs with his free hand and heads into the backroom to find Steve sitting up in the cot, yawning and brushing strands of spun gold hair out of his eyes.  
Bucky resists the urge to mess up Steve’s attempts to neaten himself and hands over the coffee. Steve takes it with a murmured thank you and pulls his knees up so Bucky can sit next to him on the cot. Bucky watches him sipping his coffee, soft edged and sleep eyed and reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Steve leans into the touch and Bucky presses a thumb to his lower lip.  
“ _Shukka_ ,” Bucky murmurs.  
Steve blinks slowly and smiles. “I don’t know what that means.” His lips rasping against the pad of Bucky’s thumb. Bucky pulls his hand away and holds up the tin plate.  
“Breakfast,” he says, ignoring the question.  
Steve takes one of the chunks of bread and hesitates, picking a flake of cinder out of the egg.  
“What?” Bucky mutters defensively. “You need a napkin??  
Steve shakes his head and takes a bite, savouring the rich flavour. It’s gritty and greasy and the best thing he’s ever eaten.  
Bucky shuffles back until he’s leaning against Steve’s hip, quietly chewing on his own bread and eggs. Steve swallow's the last bite and makes a happy little sound, cradling his coffee to his chest and pushing his fingers into Bucky’s dark hair.  
They lie in comfortable silence a while, Steve’s fingers massaging little circles on Bucky’s scalp while he curls his hand around Steve’s ankle, thumb stroking idly.  
Outside a rooster crows and Bucky frowns. He sits up and pats Steve on the hip.  
“C’mon, up you get.” Steve grumbles softly and Bucky tugs at the blanket. “On yer feet, sheriff.”  
At that word Steve sits up, taking a moment to stretch, and Bucky watches the play of muscles across his back shamelessly. He gets to his feet and picks up the clothes folded neatly on a nearby chair the night before and places them carefully at the end of the cot, heading back out to the forge to make more coffee.

Steve dresses slowly, pulling on his shirt and fastening it up, following with the Hendersons, fumbling with the buckle and button fly as he yawns. He shakes out his vest and slips it on, working each button slowly, half an ear on the sounds of Bucky clattering about in the workroom. He pulls on his boots and looks around for his duster and hat, nowhere to be seen in the cramped room, so he follows the sound of whistling to find Bucky setting out his tools for the day.

Bucky looks up when he enters the room and smiles. The rare smile, the one just for Steve that crinkles up the corners of his eyes.  
“ _Bori rai_ ,” Bucky murmurs, setting down his pliers and walking over.  
The beard does not cover all of the rosy blush on Steve’s features, and Bucky traces his fingers along the line of his jaw, raking his nails against the gold of his neatly trimmed beard until Steve takes the hint and presses slow, sweet kisses to his lips.  
He could spend eternity here, Steve thinks, in the low light and banked heat of the forge. Could spend forever in the slow exchange of kisses, the sweep of tongue and the press of teeth. Bucky kisses like he has no care in the world, no considerations but the drag of his incisors against a full lower lip and the hot, slick press of tongues.

Bucky pulls away far too soon, and Steve suppresses a whimper at the loss. Bucky stands back and takes a look at him, reaching up to smooth down the collar of his shirt.  
Steve keeps as still as he can while Bucky straightens out his cuffs, pulling the stiff fabric into position. His heart beats a little faster as Bucky reaches to his waist, and he tries not to feel disappointment that it's only to tug down his waistcoat.  
Bucky smirks and clucks his tongue. “Restless, aren’t ya?” He teases gently.  
Steve’s duster is hanging from a hook on the far wall. Bucky fetches it and motions Steve to turn around and put his arms out, pushing his arms into the sleeves and lifting the coat onto his shoulders, tugging Steve back to face him while he smooths down the lapels.  
Steve watches him carefully while Bucky runs his palms over the fabric, brushing away loose threads and pieces of grit.  
“Should I go out the back?” Steve asks quietly.  
Bucky snorts and shakes his head.  
“You sneak around you get caught,” he glances up, a smile tugging at his mouth. “So don’t sneak.”  
“Buck… If we get caught…”  
“I ain't saying we go down to the saloon and I bend you over the poker table,” Bucky grins as Steve flushes crimson at the notion. “We’re gonna go outside an’ sit on the porch with a cup of coffee like civilised folk.”  
Bucky fetches a comb and Steve’s hat. He brushes his fingers across the brim while Steve pushes the comb through his hair with neat, practiced flicks of his wrist. Twists his fingers along the stiff felt to keep them from fisting the smooth lines of Steve’s shirt, from tangling in his hair.  
“Sit proper, you understand,” he says, fixing Steve with a serious look. “No squirming about like a man who ain’t been ploughed before.”  
Bucky places the hat firmly on Steve’s head, watching as he flusters and tries to hide it by adjusting it’s position.  
“I am a man who ain’t been ploughed before,” Steve mumbles. He gives Bucky a sly glance. “Not that I would be opposed to such a thing,” he shifts, his lips twitching. “If an opportunity were to arise.”  
Bucky gifts him with a kiss, if only to keep him from stuttering.  
“Wouldn’t object to, um, ploughing either.” Steve adds.  
Bucky kisses him again. And again. Until they are both near breathless.  
“Could be arranged,” Bucky murmurs softly.  
Steve lets out a strangled little noise and Bucky chuckles, fetching their mugs and picking up the coffeepot from its place by the coals.  
He leads Steve through the workshop, out to the storefront, pushing open the door and ushering him onto the porch.  
Steve sits down on the wooden bench, reaching up for the enamel mug that Bucky holds out to him. Bucky pours them coffee before setting the pot on the wooden boards and sitting at the other end of the bench.  
They sit turned to each other, sipping their coffee and watching the town slowly wake up, nodding to the early risers walking past.

Steve leans back and closes his eyes. There is still a residual chill in the air, enough to catch in his throat if he breathes in too sharply.  
He savours the sensations. The low, deep ache that turns sharp when he shifts too quickly in his his seat. The bruises on his hips. The bitter taste of coffee on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky in this fic is AngloRomani. Because I'm AngloRomani, and there's not enough of us.  
> And since I'm going to hell for the smut, may as well teach you the language while I'm at it :)
> 
> Shukka - beautiful  
> Bori rai - Big man


End file.
